


yours, too

by alcyonenight



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Scars, Torture, Wings, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 03:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11500926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcyonenight/pseuds/alcyonenight
Summary: People from Niflheim have wings. People from Lucis don't. Prompto's adoptive parents hope to spare him from a lot of discrimination by preventing his wings from growing in. This may or may not be a kindness.Fill for the kink meme.





	yours, too

**Author's Note:**

> [Kink meme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3892.html?thread=5293620#cmt5293620) fill: "Niffs have wings. Lucians don't. When Prompto was a child, his parents responded to the appearance of his wings by using a knife to dig out each and every feather out of his back as it appeared, eventually leaving his back covered with scars but wingless." Was originally posted under the title "Empty Wind" but then I hated that title.
> 
> Graphic depictions of medical trauma/torture. Keep yourself safe.

The first pin feathers grew in when you were three. You think your earliest memory is the first removal.

You'd just taken your bath and you were expecting to go to bed, but instead, Mom sat you down on a stool. You don't remember exactly what she said. Just that she held on to you, tight, so you couldn't get away, and then something on your back hurt.

You wailed and wailed.

The one time you could get Dad to talk about it, he mentioned that at first, they didn't know that they had to kill the follicle or the feather would just come back. They didn't know much at all, didn't have the right tools, and because they weren't from Niflheim and didn't know anyone that was, it was hard for them to find out what they needed to know.

He says you were a happy toddler despite everything.

* * *

Your parents dressed you in overalls so that you couldn't get your shirt off, and put your wrist in a brace your chubby little fingers couldn't open so that no one would see the bar code. You didn't understand, couldn't understand when you were little.

But one night, when you were eight or nine, your parents were watching the news, and before they could flip the channel, you saw a bunch of people with wings in jail.

Dad sighed and looked at you. "Prompto. You know about your back, and about the code on your wrist, right?"

You nodded. You didn't know what, exactly, was happening to your back. (You realized later that it was because they worried you might talk about it.) But certainly you knew something was happening.

"If the wrong person finds out about those things, Prompto, you could get into a lot of trouble. You could end up in jail, like them, or you could die."

"Really?" you asked. It sounded far-fetched to you. You had never seen anything like that. But then...

"Those people are in jail because they're from a place where people have wings," Mom explained. "You grew up here, but you were born in that place. If you want everyone to be safe, no one can find out."

That night, they took out six feathers at the root. No one had to hold you down anymore, and you didn't scream. For the first time, they showed the bloody remains to you. "It has to be a secret," Dad said. "Do you understand?"

Fluffy white tufts emerged from pink plastic-like tubes, each with a tiny chunk of bloody pale skin attached. They nicked the shaft so you could see the fluff and understand it really was a feather. You shuddered. It looked disgusting. You didn't want something gross like that sitting on your skin.

"I understand," you said.

You were scared to make friends after that. You were scared to keep the friends that you had. Now that you knew, you saw stories about it everywhere. "Asylum-Seekers from Niflheim Refused at Border," read a headline. "Deportation of Single-Winged Child Discussed in Court." Winged soldiers from Niflheim swooping down from the skies, looking more and more like monsters every year. They really would kill you if they knew.

* * *

The bone structure tries to grow in as you grow older. Your parents find a... well, she's not a doctor, but she does this for a living. You bind your shoulders and back into place so the bones lay as flat as possible. You gain a lot of weight so that the odd shape is less evident. You're ten for the first real surgery, twelve for the second. They tell you they're waiting for sixteen for the last one so that your real bone structure can grow to the proper size.

By the very latest, this will all be over when you're twenty, they tell you. You hold on to that. By the very latest, you'll be normal when you're twenty.

When you're at home recovering from the second surgery, you meet a little dog, broken just like you. But you know how to clean an injury like that, even if you've only seen it done in a mirror.

A few things change, after that. You fight with your parents about losing weight until they let you do it. You learn to speak up, to smile in ways that seem genuine even to people who should know better. You know better than to talk about the dog or the letter, so you let your parents think you're just lonely.

* * *

By the time you're in high school, you only occasionally have a new feather grow in, but they have to come out all the same.

"You've made a dangerous friend," Dad says, sliding a fresh blade onto the scalpel.

You just nod. "Anybody's dangerous, though."

"True enough." Dad prods your back with the blade near your left shoulder blade. "Pain or pressure?"

"Just pressure." It's a lie, but this has to be done, and the cheap numbing cream doesn't get any better if there's a thicker layer or you wait longer. "Go on, get it over with."

You grit your teeth. The scalpel bites into your shoulder. At least it's not as bad as before Mom bought the numbing cream.

It's just one pin feather this time, but you can tell that it would have been a pretty big feather if allowed to grow in, just from how long it's taking Dad to cut the root out. You grip the edges of the chair with both hands and try not to think about what's happening.

"I should have grabbed my notebooks before we started," you say. "I've got a math test tomorrow."

"Almost done," Dad says. "Got it extracted, just have to stitch it closed."

"Hey, I was trying to talk about school," you say, forcing it to sound like a joke. "Aren't you always nagging me about my personal life?"

Dad chuckles. "Okay, tell me about school, then." The curved needle hooks into your skin, and you don't wince.

"I think I'm going to do okay on the math test," you say. "It's the Lucian history test on Friday that I'm worried about. I know I can't just do okay." You need to be a model Lucian with your blonde hair and strange code on your wrist.

"I believe in you," Dad says. You feel him tie off a stitch. "There you are."

You rotate your shoulders experimentally. It doesn't feel any worse than usual. Range of motion is still good. "Thanks," you say, because he expects you to.

* * *

Your parents aren't wrong. Noctis is a very dangerous friend.

Noct loves casual touch because no one but you will casually touch a prince, and sometimes he'll give you a friendly thump on the back and it will be all you can do not to yelp. Your parents got you out of PE forever due to "nerve damage" and you know he's dying to ask after what happened to him as a kid. Not to mention that he spends a lot of time with his... minders? Staff? They're older, and one is very smart and one is very strong. You know if they figured out your secret they could, and might, kill you on the spot.

But you love Noct, just like Luna thought you would. Maybe more than she thought you would. Even if you knew for sure that seeing him would get you killed, you'd still do it. You know it would screw over your parents and not just you, and you just don't care.

For now, at least, that's all theoretical, and you like to pretend that the shift from theory to practice wouldn't take about ten seconds.

No, no. Gotta focus. 

You're curled up on Noct's couch with your Lucian history notes in your lap. You're not great at taking notes, but you do the best you can. 

"Hey, Prom. Come on, you've been doing this for three hours. Take a break. Play some King's Knight with me." You don't look up, but you can see the exact pout on his face anyway.

"I'm studying, Noct," you remind him. "You told me that I could come over here and study."

"Yeah, but you always get great grades on everything," Noct whines.

"That's because I _study_ , Noct," you tell him. Despite that, you're smiling. "What time is it?"

Ignis pipes up from the kitchen. "It's almost seven. Prompto, will you be staying for dinner?"

"Wow, how did it get so late?" You look down at your books, glance over at Noct, glance at Ignis. Noct absolutely wants you to stay. Ignis is just as hard to read as usual, but you know his face is capable of a disapproving look, so you figure he doesn't want you gone too bad. 

Well, soon you're going to have the big bone surgery, and you could die from that. Might as well.

"If you don't mind," you say. "I really do like your cooking."

You think maybe Ignis looks pleased. "Thank you. I'll be getting started." He steps back into the kitchen, and you duck back into your notes.

"I know you don't take notes, but just in case, you don't have anything from that day I was out last week, right?" you ask.

"Actually, just for you, I... well, I made an attempt." He drags something out of his bag. "I don't know if it's actually useful, but it's probably better than nothing. Sorry, I forgot about it until you said something."

You smile. "Thanks," you say, and accept the sheet of half-legible text. He really does like you. If he ever finds out what you are, he's going to feel so betrayed.

You just wish you were more like him.

* * *

The math test comes and goes. You get a B. The history test comes and goes. You get an A and the top score of the class. Dad doesn't pull the two pin feathers that start growing in because next week-- four days from now-- six-o-clock tomorrow morning, you're going to have your back cut into anyway.

You could die on the table. You could get an infection and die a couple days afterward. You're probably not going to get the best anaesthetics. All the equipment is smuggled out of a hospital, and the more powerful something is, the more difficult it is to make it disappear. You know it's going to hurt.

On the other hand, being scared is kind of useful, because you look more or less the same when you're scared as when you're sick. By lunchtime on Friday, Noct is practically begging you to go home. "You look like you're going to pass out," he says. "Come on. I can have Ignis take you. Or I can call a cab for you."

You shake your head. Knowing he's worried, even if he doesn't know what he should be worried about, warms your heart. "I'll be fine," you say. "It's Friday. I can sleep all weekend and come back at 100% on Monday. No big deal."

Noct gives you a quick bro-hug. "If you die, I'll bring you back to life just so I can kill you again," he says. 

"I'll hold you to it," you say, and try to smile just a little. 

Noct keeps glancing at you all afternoon. He texts you at nine, presumably not long before going to bed, "take care of urself k?"

You send back a single "k" and hold on to that warmth for the rest of a sleepless night.

* * *

You don't know your doctor's real name. The doorplate on the office states that you're seeing a chiropractor named Charta Gratia. She signs your paperwork as Flori Cinis, MD. She told you and your parents to call her Desidera. You're pretty sure that none of those are featured on her birth certificate, but you're pretty sure your birth certificate is fake, so who are you to judge?

Desidera smiles at you when you walk in the door and you probably don't smile back, but you make an attempt. "Yeah, I know, everyone's nervous when they get this done, but everything will be so much easier once the growth plates are gone."

Nervous does not even begin to cover how you feel about what is going to happen right now.

You're ushered into a side room where you change into a hospital gown, while your parents and a pretty blonde girl you've never seen before change into surgical scrubs. Desidera gives you some pills and a sip of water, and you all wait around for them to take effect.

"It's gonna be fine," says the blonde girl, in an accent you can't place. "I had this done a few years back, here in this same room."

You nod your head. You're too scared to speak.

And then you're not. Well, somewhere in a corner of your mind, you're scared, but you don't feel it. It's as if they cut your mind and body apart from each other, and all you can do is watch. "Is this...?" you ask, sluggish, feeling like you're using a game controller to speak instead of your own mouth.

"That's what we're looking for," Desidera replies, though she asks you a few questions after that to be sure. It's hard to answer. You're so far away from the room that nothing there seems important.

The blonde girl gives you a mouthguard and shows you how to put it in your mouth. They lay your body down on the table, on your stomach, and murmur to each other. You feel a few injections into your back. There's more murmuring. You float and drift.

The scalpel in your back is a lightning bolt slamming you back into your skin. It's slicing deeper than for a feather, deeper than any of the other surgeries you've had. Your jaws clamp down on the mouthguard as you try not to scream. Someone's hands are in yours. You don't look at who it is. You try to remember not to struggle, but. But. Nothing is supposed to be digging around in your skin like that. Nothing, never, no. No.

"It's going to be okay," voices tell you. "You can do it."

Something in your brain slips, and you float away from your body again. It hurts, but you don't care anymore. The terror and agony from just moments ago make no sense now. None of this matters. It doesn't have anything to do with you. 

There's something with a motor running behind you. And then your bones are vibrating, which is an awfully strange sensation. You would like it to stop. You know it's not going to stop, not yet, but you can't remember why. 

Time passes. You float further and further away. You wonder if you're going to die. Or maybe you're already dead now. Everything smells like blood. They're digging around in your back. No one is ever supposed to do that. Piercing. Digging. Stabbing.

And then it just... stops.

"We're finished," someone says. Something cool flows onto your back. A tickling, itching feeling spreads over your shoulder blades.

Someone's gloved hand pulls the mouthguard out of your mouth, and presses a straw against your lips until you figure out you're supposed to drink. You sip whatever it is. A lemon flavor with a strange tingle. Your back prickles again.

"You did so good," someone tells you. That's Mom, you remember. "You did really good."

"Okay," you mumble.

* * *

Desidera gives you a drug that makes you sleep, and you sleep on your stomach on a small bed for a long time.

Everyone's in street clothes when you really wake up. Your back feels stiff and sore, and occasional sharp, shooting pains radiate from your shoulder blades. You're weak and tired.

"Let's get you on your feet," Desidera says. "Miss Nurse?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, darling." The blonde girl is strong enough to lift you up to stand on her own. You wouldn't have guessed just looking at her. 

It seems that you _can_ walk, but your balance is off. "It's because your back is lighter than it used to be," Desidera explains. "You'll compensate within a few days."

You know there are questions to ask, concerns to have, but all that you can think to do is to turn to your parents. "I want to go home," you say.

So they take you home.

You spend the whole week out of school recovering. Your body replaces the blood that you lost, knits muscle and skin back together, integrates pins into bones. On Monday, you text a panicked Noct to tell him that he was right about you being sick, you have a bad ear infection, yes you saw a doctor, you're going to be out of school for a few more days. You beg him to take notes for you, even though you're almost sure they're going to be useless.

And then the next Monday rolls around, and you go back to school.

You still hurt every time you move your back, or your arms, or your neck, but the screaming has faded to a dull roar. You mostly don't stumble and trip anymore. You're not quite so tired. Mostly, this is as long as you can get away with being out of school before you get a lot of questions you really don't want to answer.

You should have known Noct would figure you out.

* * *

Noct pulls you aside at lunchtime. He leads you to that tree where he likes to write in that notebook you pretend you don't know about. You know he's got at least something figured out when you see he's dragged over a folding chair. "Sit," he says, leaning against the tree, in the voice that means business that he almost never uses.

You sit.

"It's your back. It's always been your back," Noct says.

"Yeah," you mumble. "I guess you would know."

He pauses, sighs. "Look, it's none of my business. I know. I just- why do you feel like you have to lie about it?"

You stare down at the ground. "Because I do."

It's quiet for a moment. You can almost hear Noct thinking.

"You weren't sick. Something happened that weekend. Bad enough that you were out of school for a week, and you really should have been out longer. But you can't tell me what it was."

"Yeah." You swallow, take a breath. "I- I'll go, if you want me to."

Noct smiles weakly, shakes his head. "No, no. It's not like that."

"Then... what is it?"

Noct scratches at the back of his head. "Can I heal you? With my magic?"

You frown. "Doesn't that take a lot out of you?"

He shrugs. "You're hurting."

"Do I have to take my shirt off?"

Noct shakes his head.

"Will you be able to... see what happened with your magic, or something?"

"I'm not going to have visions or something, if that's what you're asking." Noct obviously knows that's not what you're asking.

"Well, yeah, but... if you can see just what's hurt then..."

"I could probably guess?" Noct finishes. 

You nod.

Noct sighs. "Look, Prom, I- No." He swallows. "I could guess anyway, you know. If I wanted to. I know about... a lot of things that happen in Insomnia, even if Ignis always complains about how I don't pay attention. But that would... that'd be me being the Prince, and with you, I'm not really... the Prince."

You feel the blood drain from your face. "Noct, you're always the Prince."

"I'm not... that's not supposed to be a _threat_ ," Noct says, clearly frustrated. "That's supposed to be... what if I did guess, Prom? What if I guessed months and months ago, and I haven't said anything, and I'm not going to?" He laughs weakly. "I'm not saying that's true. Just. What if."

"Then you would know why I couldn't talk about it," you mumble.

"I wouldn't ask you to tell me, even though I don't like you lying to me," Noct says. "I would just want you to let me help you." He swallows. "And I would say... I know you didn't do it for me, but I would want you to know that I'd never want anyone to do that, especially not you."

"You wouldn't?" you say, startled despite yourself.

" _Never_ ," Noct repeats. "So. Please. Just let me heal you. I won't be able to fix everything, it's not like that, but- Please, Prom."

"Okay," you say. "Just. I'm scared."

"It's okay," Noct says. You can see magic swirling in his palms. "I'll keep... not knowing, okay? Even if I do see something."

"Okay," you say, and a little of the tension seeps out of you. "Okay."

* * *

You start training along with Gladio right after high school, so you can help protect Noct. Gladio has you work with a bunch of weapons, and then you get a gun in your hands and it feels _right_ and you think it scares him a little. But of course there are other things to learn. Disarming attackers, getting out of a wide range of holds, first aid, a disturbing number of ways to sacrifice yourself to save a Prince in danger... 

It's not so bad. You take to it better than anyone expected. But Astrals, it is hard work.

Three months in, you're so sweaty and disgusting that you just can't bear to wait for Gladio to leave before you shower and change. You decide it's worth the risk. All he's going to see is scarring, anyway. You've seen your scars in the mirror. Long, straight remnants of surgical incisions, five of them, mirrored on either side of your shoulder blades. Ugly, scattered ovals raised a millimeter or so from the skin beneath it where your feathers were dug out. But it wasn't likely that anyone would know what the scars meant.

As it turns out, Gladio doesn't know what the scars are, but that's not quite enough.

You don't even get as far as the shower. You peel your shirt off and start sorting through your locker, and then Gladio walks up. "Oh, that's right, I was going to ask you- What the fuck is that?"

"What?" you ask, blood running cold.

"On your back. Looks kinda like a tick or something, but..." 

"I dunno," you say, knowing exactly what he's seeing. You know better than to try to get away. He's close enough he could grab you faster than you could work up to a sprint, and it's not as if you have anywhere to go that he wouldn't know about. You just have to hope he can't figure out what he's seeing. 

You haven't had a pin feather grow out in eight months. You thought that part was over. It had been so long.

Gladio steps closer. He's behind you, so you can't see his face, what he's thinking. "Want me to pull it out?" he asks.

Your heart throbs, and you can feel it in almost your entire body. "N-no, it's all right, I'll-"

"Prompto... what is that?"

A sick feeling pools in your stomach. "It's not- I don't-"

You're shaking. All this time, after everything, and you're found out. Gladio is Noct's Shield. He is absolutely going to kill you, right here on the spot.

Gladio doesn't say a word. Stands there in absolute silence. You have no idea what he's thinking. You stare down at the bench, head down, waiting for him to materialize a sword out of nowhere and cut your head off, or whatever it is that he would do to a Niff spy.

"How about you take a shower while I think about this," he says, in the flattest tone that you've ever heard from him. 

You gather up your things and take a shower. He takes a shower, too, which is kind of a surprise. You don't try to leave afterward because you're not a complete idiot, just dry off and get dressed and put everything back in your locker like a robot.

"We're going up to Ignis's room, and we're going to talk to him," Gladio says, once he's toweled off his hair. He picks up his phone, makes a call, hangs up immediately, makes a call and hangs up again, and sends a text. You're pretty sure that's the signal for "this is an immediate crisis."

You don't know how to talk to this man that you've known for years, someone else in Noct's orbit. You ride the elevator in a deeply uncomfortable silence, staring at the floor. He stands a little closer to you than he normally would, and you're not sure what that means, but it's not a comfortable feeling.

When you get to the tiny apartment Ignis has at the Citadel, the door is open, and he's waiting on the couch. He clearly was not expecting you to be there. You're trembling. Gladio closes and locks the door behind you.

"Take off your shirt," Gladio says, without preamble.

You take off your shirt and turn to face away from them, knowing what he wants.

Ignis is silent for a moment. His voice is completely even when he finally does speak. "You may put your shirt back on," he says.

You do that. You don't know why you're still alive. You can't stop shaking.

"I'm going to get a can of coffee," he says. "Would either of you like something to drink?"

You stare, caught completely off guard. Of all the things he might say, that was not even on the list.

"I'll get you both some water," Ignis says. "Please, take a seat at the kitchen table."

You go sit down. You are very good at following directions just now.

Ignis returns with a can of coffee and two glasses of water. He and Gladio sit down, Gladio on an edge near you, Ignis across from you. He slides a water glass to sit in front of you. You think you might be sick.

"Prompto, would you like to tell us about this?"

You know you can't say no. You have nothing to lose, anyway.

You tell them about it. About how you don't know how you got to be in Insomnia, but you're pretty sure that however it happened, it was illegal. You take off your wristband and show them the bar code, because you might as well. You tell them about how the feathers started growing in when you were three, when you can barely remember. Years and years of scalpels carving into your back. About the "doctor" with a name you (probably) don't know, and bindings, and surgeries. You sip water and stumble through talking about the dog, even though you're sure they're not going to believe you. You tell them about Noct, and "not knowing," at which point Gladio swears loudly.

"I thought the feathers had stopped coming in. It was a stupid risk. But here we are," you finish, and try not to cry. They might take that as an attempt at manipulation, or something.

Ignis closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. "I believe you," he says. "I will need more time to decide what to do about it, but I do, indeed, believe you."

You can't help it. You drop your arms down to the table and start to sob. 

To your absolute shock, warm arms wrap around you, warm bodies press against each of your sides, until you cry yourself out.

* * *

You wake up. You don't remember falling asleep. Someone's draped a blanket over you. People are talking in soft murmurs.

Wait. They know.

You're too exhausted to work yourself into a proper panic, and you just sit up.

"Oh, you're awake," Ignis says, completely calm, as if nothing whatsoever has happened. "I was just about to start dinner."

You stare. Gladio and- now Noct is there. 

You're so tired. You're not ready to go over every secret you've ever had again, especially not in front of him.

You're still half convinced that they're going to kill you, even though usually people don't hug you and let you cry yourself to sleep when they're planning to kill you. If they're planning to turn you in, you're as good as dead anyway, so there's that.

You might as well ask. "What are you going to do about..." 

"Nothing," Noct says.

You blink. "Nothing?"

Ignis turns to you. "You cannot be held responsible for things that you do not have control over."

"And," Noct says, "I outrank them, and if I say they're not going to do anything, they're not." He looks at both of them sternly, as if he's daring them to disagree.

You don't know how to react to any of this. "So everything's... okay?" 

"Nothing's changed," Gladio replies.

You feel like you're going to cry again. You feel like this is a dream. You feel sick and scared and you don't know how to believe them, even if you want to.

"Legally speaking, I should be deported to Niflheim, if nothing else." 

"Yeah, but that's stupid, so we're not going to do that," Noct says. 

You sigh. "I... I gotta go home, if I'm... allowed to, or whatever? My parents will be worried, and I gotta get rid of that feather."

Noct looks quietly horrified. You're not sure why. But he doesn't say anything.

"You can go wherever," Gladio says. "Home, the pastry shop, that dumb arcade you and Noct try to sneak off to. We keep telling you."

"I have to go," you say. No one moves to stop you. "I- Thank you." 

And you flee, before someone changes their mind.

* * *

You don't tell your parents what happened, even though you know you really ought to. You're sure they can tell something's wrong anyway, but neither of them pry. Dad takes the feather out, just like usual. You grumble about it.

"We probably just didn't get a follicle out well enough," Dad says. "That's been how the last few were." You can tell he cuts the edges huge this time.

Over the next few days, you slowly accept that no one is going to come after you, and you really are safe. You go back to training with Gladio, and he doesn't say anything you skipping a few days. Noct invites you over to his apartment to play video games, and you don't talk about it, but you think he lets you win that racing game at least twice.

Ignis is more complicated, but that's really not new.

One day after training, he's waiting to intercept you or whatever. You feel a little sick for a moment, but then he smiles just a fraction, probably entirely for your benefit. "I could use your assistance with a few errands," he says.

"Sure," you say, anxiety fluttering in your chest again. Ignis never talks to you without an actual reason, and he's absolutely not taking you somewhere just for fun.

The two of you go up to his apartment again, and he makes tea in his kitchen. "I'm sorry if I've alarmed you," he says. "It's just that I can be sure that no one is monitoring these rooms, whereas I know that in at least some parts of the Citadel there is constant audio-video surveillance."

You nod hesitantly. "So this is about the... Niflheim thing," you say.

"Yes. How do you take your tea?"

You don't really drink tea. "Umm. Some sugar would be nice?"

Ignis stirs a little sugar into your cup, then takes his own plain tea to sit in front of you. "I would like to begin by emphasizing that I have no intention of doing harm to you or reporting you to any authorities," he says, and takes a sip of his tea.

You nod, pressing your hands to your warm mug.

"I have a request," Ignis says. "You mentioned that you have only ever seen a potentially-unlicensed medical professional over the course of your life."

"Yeah," you reply.

"This is an option, and you can say no," Ignis continues. "But if I was able to guarantee confidentiality, would you be willing to see a genuine doctor?"

You go white. "Why?" you ask.

Ignis does not seem surprised by your reaction. "I imagine you have never had your vaccinations. There has undoubtedly been permanent damage to your musculature from amputations and binding, and you should at least know what has been done to you, even if the damage cannot be mitigated. You should be tested for infection after all of the... injuries you have undergone. Do I need to continue?"

You shake your head. "No, but..." You try to get your thoughts together. "How could you guarantee that they wouldn't tell anyone?"

Ignis nods. "The doctor that I have in mind is also an immigrant from Niflheim." The word choice does not escape you. "If it matters to you, he has not had his wings amputated."

You blink. "How..."

"Dr. Benevente disrupted medical experimentation in a Niflheim facility, and was granted asylum by the Crown," Ignis replies. "He currently lives in the same apartment building as Prince Noctis, along with many others who would not be safe without the Crown's protection."

"And how would I... afford this?"

Ignis blinks, and this might be the first time you've caught him off guard. "Medical care is free of cost in Lucis." Then you see the spark of understanding in his eyes. "Ah. Well. You won't have to concern yourself with that."

You nod. "This is... a lot to take in. But thank you. I'll think about it."

Hours later, you decide this was good. Ignis was worried about your health and not your loyalties. He went to the trouble of finding a doctor you could plausibly be comfortable with, and never implied that wings were bad. It might as well be him giving you his blessing.

* * *

You've never actually seen someone with intact wings in person before. You've met a few adult Niff refugees with amputated wings, and other Niff kids who were also seeing Desidera. And once you saw a one-winged half-Niff girl from a distance. But this is different. For the first time, seeing full white feathers on huge grand wings, you feel like you've lost something. Your fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and touch.

You remind yourself that probably everyone in Lucis stares at Dr. Benevente's wings all the time, and he's got to be sick of it, and drag your eyes to his face. He just smiles at you. 

"I've heard there was a back-alley practice of... preventing wing formation in children of Niflheim descent, but this will be the first time that I see the results," he admits. "I apologize in advance if I speak to you with an excess of professional curiosity."

"No, it's okay," you say. You hadn't thought of yourself as interesting before. "It's nice to meet you."

You start easy. Some of these things you've even had done before. Height and weight, blood pressure (you discover that you are not a fan of blood pressure cuffs), temperature. He listens to your heart and lungs with one weird device, checks in your nose and ears with another, goes down a long checklist to screen for "all kinds of things." He draws a blood sample, and has you go to the bathroom to provide a urine sample as well. You've had exactly zero vaccinations ever, so he gives you a basic schedule for when you should receive them, and you get a few shots right there.

He glances at your wrist, the bar code, the scarring surrounding it. "What happened here?" he asks.

"Mom and Dad tried to cut the bar code off once. It... grew back in. I think it's magic."

"I see." He writes something down on his notepad, head tilted down just enough that you can't quite make out his expression.

Of course, then he wants to see your back.

You take your shirt off, which you hate, because you have no recollection of baring your back to anyone and having a positive experience afterward. But Dr. Benevente is surprisingly gentle. He has you move your shoulders and arms around to check your range of motion, prods a few spots (you do not have the reflexes usually associated with wings, surprising neither of you), and of course wants you to sit for some x-rays of your back and the arm with the bar code, a complex procedure involving lead blankets.

You see a distinct frown when he's looking at the results.

"Sir?"

"Ah, yes." Dr. Benevente stands next to you and shows you the page, along with two pages with different skeletal structures. "These are reference images for males born with and without wings," he informs you. "And this one here is you."

You look up at the shoulders. "Mine doesn't really look like either of those," you say.

"No, it doesn't," he replies. "And these--" He points out a few particularly bright, straight lines in the image. "They appear to be pins used to secure bones together, and I think your... ah... the person who did this used them to fuse wing bones with shoulder bones."

You feel a little sick. "How bad is that?"

The doctor shakes his head. "Honestly, I wouldn't know. You have a normal range of motion, which is good. I would need to consult with others to have a better picture of what's going on here, and I don't think either of us would be comfortable with that."

You shake your head. "So it's just... kind of a mystery."

"For now. Either way, given that these have healed, it's unlikely that we would improve the situation through surgery. At least there's nothing visible inserted near your wrist." He sighs. "Do your shoulders or back ache?"

You nod hesitantly. "Both. All the time." It's been much worse since you started training with a gun, but you're not going to stop doing that. "I'm used to it, though."

"No one deserves to be in constant pain," Dr. Benevente says, and even though you really _are_ used to it, you spend at least fifteen minutes discussing the topic. You eventually agree that you could use something a bit stronger for the really bad days, and he writes a prescription for you.

You give him a number to call when he's finished with your blood and urine tests, and schedule appointments for more shots and follow-up. As you're gathering up the appointment reminders (written by hand, individually, on index cards) and your prescription, he says, "The things that were done to you were cruel and you did not deserve them."

You don't know how to react to that.

"Thank you for the appointment," you say, and go up to Noct's apartment for a few hours of video games to take your mind off all of this.

* * *

You finally get a smartphone that summer, and you start taking pictures with it. More and more, there are things in your life that you actually _do_ want to remember. You find that you're actually not bad at photography.

The Citadel is beautiful. The whole of Insomnia is beautiful. Noct is extremely beautiful, but Iggy and Gladio aren't exactly a strain on the eye either. You take pictures of your friends (and Iggy and Gladio really are your friends, you gradually realize). When they're training. When Noct is whining about having to wear his official clothes or staring down at a report with that look of fixed concentration you see more and more often these days. When Iggy is cooking, because that's the only time he seems to truly relax. When Gladio's showing off, bench pressing his little sister or doing a handstand with one arm. 

You take pictures of any particularly attractive-looking meal you eat, even if it doesn't taste good. You take pictures of your parents, who have finally paid off your last surgery and don't always have that strained look anymore. You try to take pictures of the sky, try and try, but you can't get a shot that does it justice.

"Haven't you ever taken a selfie?" Noct asks, flipping through your pictures.

"They always turn out awful," you reply. 

Noct hums. "Then you should do it more. Practice, you know?"

You don't actually take a single picture of yourself that summer, not a selfie, not in a mirror. You don't want to remember what _you_ look like. You know Noct notices, but he never brings it up again.

You keep taking pictures as summer turns to fall. You keep trying to get a good shot of the sky, but you never do. You try not to think about why you're so obsessed with it.

For your birthday in October, Noct buys you a real camera. It's not the fanciest gadget in the store by any means ("I know you wouldn't take it if it was too nice"), but it's much more powerful than your phone. "Maybe you can finally get that shot of the sky you've been trying to get," he says.

You blush. "Thanks," you say. You take about fifty pictures that day. Just one picture has you in it, a picture of the four of you that Mom insists on taking herself.

When you look at it, it doesn't seem so bad.

* * *

One night you're sleeping over at Noct's apartment after a long day of video games and pizza. Well, he's sleeping. You can't sleep. You stare out the window of his apartment. It's a beautiful view. You know better than to try to take a picture of something through glass in the middle of the night, so you don't try. Instead, you try to memorize what you see.

You wonder what it would be like to be up so high outside, because it's late and you're exhausted and you can't stop yourself as well as you usually can. What it would feel like, the breeze on your skin. How you could take pictures of the city lights from above, the Citadel from every angle. 

You could have had that.

You could have had that, and a back and shoulders that didn't hurt all the time, and maybe you would have been...

Shit, you're crying. This is why you try not to think about this stuff.

Then it gets worse, because despite your attempts to be quiet, your sobbing is always so loud. You're an ugly crier. And Noct, in a tank top and pajama pants, wanders into the room.

_Shit._

You stare at him. "I- I'm s-sorry I- I woke you up," you choke out.

Noct wraps his arms around you and gently rubs your back. "I'd rather you woke me up than have you cry alone," he says softly. "I like you more than sleep."

"I'm- I'm still- sorry," you manage.

"And I'm still glad I heard you." Noct pushes your head down onto his shoulder. "It's okay."

You finally, finally let it out. Noct leads you to the couch and sits you down, keeping at least one arm around you the whole time, presses you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat. He cards his fingers through your hair, gentle and soothing.

After you start to calm down, Noct asks you, "You want to talk about it?"

And because you're so, so tired, and you don't have the sense to keep your damn mouth shut, you whisper, "I wish they hadn't taken my wings."

"Me too," he murmurs.

So many feelings scream through your chest that you don't know what any of them are. You're so tired of fighting them off. Maybe, just this once, it's okay to feel them instead.

You start weeping again, sobbing and sobbing.

It hurts, it really does, but not the way you thought it would. More like pulling a splinter than a feather.

You fall asleep on the couch, and when you wake up, Noct is still holding you.

* * *

You've become more and more comfortable with Iggy over time, but he's still not an easy person to read. But these days, you can tell when he's having a silent argument with Noct, even if you have no idea what it's actually about. This afternoon, while you're taking your turn on the new First Reality game, you can feel the crackle in the air around you.

"Okay, fine," Noct says, finally. "But if you-"

"I am aware of that," Iggy says in his Ignis voice. He turns to you. "I would like to... extend an offer to you," he says. "Honestly, more than one, but this has to be the first."

Noct sighs. "You scare him when you're formal like that," he complains.

" _Noct,_ " you complain, face flushing.

Iggy smiles fondly. "Prompto, how would you feel about being a full, legal citizen of Lucis?"

"That would..." You think it over. "You can do that?"

"I can do that," Noct says. "Specs can do the paperwork."

You look down at your hands. "It seems kinda unfair that it would just be me, and not..."

"That would take... a lot more than I can do right now," Noct says. "Dad's got mixed feelings, and the Council is a hard no. But I don't... I want to do what I can," he tells you. "And I can do this."

Iggy nods. "If you want it," he says. "It has many advantages, but... I believe that other people have made more than enough important decisions for you. It should be up to you."

"What would I... have to do?" you ask.

* * *

Gladio's got this absolutely beautiful tattoo. Well, he's got more than one tattoo, but the one that really captures your eye is the huge one, a bird spread over his entire back, his biceps, and even a little bit of his chest. You've taken a lot of pictures of it because Gladio apparently hates shirts and will take his off with even the tiniest of excuses. 

"Like what you see?" he asks one day after training.

"I like your tattoo," you say. "The bird."

"It's an eagle," Gladio says.

"You never struck me as a bird guy."

Gladio laughs. "Nah, it's not that. It's... saying that the skies don't just belong to Niflheim. They're ours, too."

You digest this for a moment. "That's cool." Then you shove your gym clothes into your locker and think. "It must have taken forever to get something that big."

"And it was expensive. But I think it was worth it." He shrugs his shoulders. "You know, you could-" He stops himself. "None of my business."

You frown. "No, what were you gonna say?"

"You could get one too. If you wanted. The skies are yours, too." Gladio looks just a little embarrassed.

"Can they even do that over all this scarring?" you ask, before you know what you're saying, then blush bright red.

Gladio nods. "They did it over mine. See?" He waves his hand over his lower back. 

You take this as permission, and step closer. You can see the scars, now that you're looking for them. You'd never noticed before. "Huh."

Gladio shrugs. "Just, you know. I don't know how you feel about... whatever. But they did a hell of a thing to you. And a lot of people aren't fair about it."

You realize this is an extremely awkward apology. You smile a little, inject a little warmth into your voice, to try to keep him from feeling hurt, because you never blamed him to begin with... But you say, "Sure, but that's enough depressing shit. Hey. Was that hit I got on you real, or were you feeling sorry for me?"

"Get better at this shit and you'll be able to tell without guessing," he says, clearly happy to be back on familiar ground.

"Come on," you whine, and let all the serious talk fade from your mind for now. But you don't forget about it.

* * *

Gladio finds you a tattoo artist, one that's good at both tattooing over scars and not asking questions about them, in addition to the actual art thing. Iggy spends hours tutting over whether the place is reputable, but also brings you anatomy books from the library when you admit you're not sure about the fine details of the design you want. 

Noct accompanies you to the first appointment, even though Iggy throws an extremely polite and refined tantrum about it. He watches you negotiate over the design, holds your hand while you show the tattoo artist pictures of feathers, and, while you're distracted looking over the final sketch, sneaks over and pays for the entire thing. 

"Are you gonna be okay?" Noct asks exactly once. It's after the second appointment, the first one where they actually start inking on the design. (Iggy insisted on Gladio coming to keep Noct safe, and Noct insisted on Iggy driving instead of cramming three people, including Gladio, into the back seat of a cab, so you all went.) You are extremely experienced with keeping your body relaxed while sharp things prick at your back, but you still sit in the car swinging between feeling shaky and numb.

"I want this," you tell him.

Something in your expression makes him smile, warm and fond. "Okay," Noct says.

He ends up coming to every single appointment, even if he has to sneak out of a meeting and endure the fabled Wrath of Ignis. And afterward, when he doesn't stay with you, he makes sure that you're not alone. 

You wait until the whole thing is finished, and then several weeks for the entire healing process to cycle, before you really look at it. You crane your neck trying to look at it with two mirrors, then give up and let Noct take a picture.

You almost cry when you look.

Wings, spreading across your back, feathers spreading all the way to your elbows on either side.

Wings, and they're yours.

* * *

It's a boiling hot day. Despite this, you drag Noct out to the park to take pictures. He peels his shirt off. 

Hesitantly, you take yours off too, and smile at the cool breeze at your back.

Noct is surprisingly cooperative, poses for you, even smiles a few times. Then, because he's Noct, he falls asleep on a park bench.

You stay near him, but keep taking shots. Flowers, trees, Noct's cute sleeping face, a selfie or two.

On a whim, you point the camera straight up, and take a picture of the sky.

You think that one might be good.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine Prompto's tattoo as something like [this.](https://i.imgur.com/EH6mOGd.jpg)


End file.
